


A Name Fit for a Queen

by mikharlow



Series: Writember [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Writember Day 4 - Whisper, im just hurting owain and crying at this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 11:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12652311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikharlow/pseuds/mikharlow
Summary: Writember Day 4 - Whisper“What manner of son would I be not to know the name which guards his mother?! Teach me so I may whisper its sobriquet in prayer and keep you ever safe.”





	A Name Fit for a Queen

**Author's Note:**

> I'm literally crying as I post this

Owain stumbled through the battlefield, yelling, screaming, his throat burning.

 

“Mother! Mother!! Where are you?!”

 

_ “There’s something I need to know, Mother.” _

 

_ “And what’s that?” _

 

His feet scraped against rocks and mud, nearly blinded by the pounding rain. The ground became slick under his tread, and he found himself struggling to just stay upright. 

 

_ “The name of your weapon.” _

 

_ “My weapon? Why?” _

 

There were bodies everywhere. Delirious as he was, he slipped and fell, and screamed as he landed in the mud beside a soldier, long gone and corpse soaked to its broken bones. Shaking, he rose to his feet, hands and knees now stained black with wet earth.

 

_ “What manner of son would I be not to know the name which guards his mother?! Teach me so I may whisper its sobriquet in prayer and keep you ever safe.” _

 

“Mother!” Owain was out of breath now, his gaze becoming less and less focused. Then he saw a figure in the distance, running towards him. “Mother?”

 

_ “Owain!” _

 

It wasn’t. It was a cleric, rushing at him wildly. “Young man! Are you hurt?” They had their staff on hand, but Owain shoved down the pain in his side and arm. “Have you seen a cleric around here, with blonde hair tied in ponytails?”

  
_ “Yes, Mother?” _

 

The cleric blinked, confused. “I… I think I saw her healing our archers back where I came from… s-she told me to run, I don’t think you shou-”

 

Owain was already running.

  
_ “I've got it! I picked one!” _

_   
_ _ “One...what?” _

 

He pushed on through. He was dripping, almost tripping at every step he took. He lost his balance a few times, but kept going. She had to be okay. She has to be.

_   
_ _ “A name! For my weapon!” _

 

And then he saw it. A yellow dress, ripped and torn, wet with rain, stained with mud and… and…

 

“Oh, Gods,  _ no! _ ”

  
_ “Ah, right! Well, let's hear it! No doubt it joins your quiet grace with your fiery strength and iron resolve!” _

 

Owain fell to his knees. His mother lay there, on her side, in the dirt, where she didn’t belong. She clutched a staff, hands red with blood.  _ Her blood _ . Owain felt sick, He grabbed one of her hands, squeezing tight. “M-Mother?”

  
_ “Owain!” _

 

“O-Owain…” Lissa croaked, cracking one eye open.

  
_ “Yes?” _

 

Owain felt tears pricking at his eyes, almost indistinguishable from the rain. “Yes, M-Mother?”

  
_ “No, that's the name. ...Owain.” _

  
Lissa raised a shaking hand to her son’s face, stroking his cheek and leaving a crimson smear there. “My… son… Owain...”

 

Owain choked back a sob. 

 

_ “Mother, that's MY name.” _

 

“Owain.. I--” She coughed, harsh, and it made Owain’s stomach lurch sourly. She spoke in a whisper. “I… love you, honey…so, so much.”

  
_ “I know, silly! It's the name of that which I value most in the whole wide world! What better name could there be?” _

 

His tears flowed freely. He held his mother’s hand against his cheek. “Mother, no… don’t do this. Don’t leave like Father did.”

 

Lissa smiled, and a smattering of blood leaked from her lips. “I’m sorry, Owain.” she whispered.

 

_ “I promise I'll be right there to rescue you when you're in trouble, too. We don't need fancy names or divine power, Son, we just need each other.” _

 

“I couldn’t... keep my... promise.”

 

Her hand slipped from his grasp. 

 

“...Mother?!”

 

Owain choked up in disbelief, holding the broken staff in one hand and his mother, his beloved mother, in the other.

 

She was gone.

 

“Mother?!  _ MOTHER! NO!! _ ”

 

And he screamed himself hoarse, with no one to hear his grief.

 

* * *

 

 

Owain was still grasping the cracked piece of his mother’s staff with white knuckles long after he’d left the battlefield.

 

_ All good weapons deserve a name. _

 

He gazed at the staff wearily, eyes long since dry and red from crying.

 

_ I’ll call it… “Lissa”. _


End file.
